Without despairing of herself, Carmina felt that she had done wisely in writing her answer, while she was still well enough to rival the cheerful tone of Ovid's letter.
She laid down to rest on the sofa, with the photograph in her hand.

No sense of loneliness oppressed her now; the portrait was the best of all companions.

Outside, the heavy rain pattered; in the room, the busy clock ticked.

She listened lazily, and looked at her lover, and kissed the faithful image of him--peacefully happy.
The opening of the door was the first little event that disturbed her.

Zo peeped in.